Volunteer Work
by child-dragon
Summary: A blood elf priest is unwillingly tasked with killing someone who has taken refuge in Dalaran. To do this, he must resort to subterfuge and turn his skills as a healer into a weapon that will leave more than just his target dead.


Silvermoon was basking in a layer of humidity. It had slipped in with the rain and the wind and filtered down into the cracks of the city where the buildings were broken up with streets. The cold drifted on past, leaving the city untouched while the sticky wet air decided to let go of its burden and rest for a while, sinking into the cobblestones with a sigh. It clung to the priest's hair and robes as he navigated the narrow streets, leading a hawkstrider behind him. His worg fur cloak was starting to be uncomfortably heavy and - even for one who despised the cold - Eonthane had to admit he would be glad to be rid of it. He firmly reminded himself it could be worse. He could still be in Northrend.

His apartment was located on one of the off-shoots from Murder Row along the second level of the city. There was a common stable that all the tenants shared and he unsaddled his hawkstrider and left it in one of the pens. It made to bite his hand as he left and he dodged the creature's beak with familiar ease. His home was a modest size, consisting of a main room and two side rooms which he had made his bedroom and study. It was also very dusty. The priest closed his door and felt for the nearest wall crystal. It bathed the room in a dim blue light, sending shadows scuttling across the floor to hide near the sparse furniture. The windows were drawn and closed and hadn't been opened in years. Eonthane frowned and stooped, noting that some of the dust on the wood floor had been disturbed. He was gone for long stretches at a time and so the mess was nothing new to him.

The footprints, however, were. They weren't familiar to him either. He knew a handful of people that had figured out where he lived and weren't ashamed to break in when they were looking for him. These weren't their footprints. They were small, not the prints an orc would leave, especially not the prints of a tauren, and seemed too deliberate to be some random thief. He stood and unhooked the leather strap that held his staff to his back. It fell comfortably in his hands, the light from it distorting the shadows into unsettling shapes. Eonthane crossed the room, his green fel eyes alert, the staff before him not as protection but as a comfort.

Something in his study moved. He drew his right hand up in a gesture, two fingers closed, two splayed, and an invisible barrier of power closing around him. The intruder stepped out into the light, her movements exaggeratedly graceful. Brown-red hair fell down her back and played over her shoulders. Her jewelry was expensive and her dress was simple and modest, of rich cloth and a cut that sat well on her. Eonthane let out a sigh and dropped his staff to let the butt rest against the floor. He didn't set it aside.

"Sister," he said quietly, "I did not expect you to greet me, especially not in my own home."

There was a hard edge to his words. She smiled. It was a thin one devoid of humor, the mirror of the one Eonthane gave her. The hair color was the only distinguishing trait that marked them as siblings. She was stocky where Eonthane was frail. Her skin was lightly browned while Eonthane's bore only the reddened wind-bite of Northrend.

"Well," she drawled, "You never come to visit nowadays. I figured if I didn't take steps I'd never get to see my little brother. You shouldn't stay away for so long without sending word! We'll never know if you finally find your shallow grave or not like this."

"I see. You've come to kill me then?"

She sniffed and ran one finger along the back of a chair, frowning at the dust.

"No. You'll do that just fine on your own, I'm sure."

"Than get the hell out of my apartment."

The siblings glared at each other. There had been little love between them to begin with. Eonthane's youth had been preoccupied with the devastating loss of the Sunwell and then with the crumbling of their family as his parents descended into the madness of the wretched. His sister had drifted away, choosing to make her own way while he remained, trying to repair the damage under the guidance of the eldest brother.

He was now dead. Eonthane had watched him bleed, forcing away all emotion by analyzing all the ways he could save him if he just lifted a hand and summoned his magic. That gesture had never come and their brother had died at Eonthane's feet.

"Please Eonthane." His sister sighed and crossed her arms. "Hear me out at least. I am your sister, you know. I know I never had much to do with you in the past but we're blood. Your brother would want you to help. He loved you, you know?"

"He also loved Kael'thas. See how well that turned out for him?"

"Five minutes and then I'll go."

Grudgingly, Eonthane nodded. His sister smiled and leaned forwards to tweak a lock of his long hair back behind his ear. He resisted the urge to shove the end of his staff in her face. Hard. Enough to break that dainty little nose.

"I have... some problems with my business these days," she said. Eonthane bit back a smart remark. "In fact, the problems were so bad I was forced to let go one of my employees. Before I could inform him he was no longer needed he fled to Dalaran-"

"Stop," Eonthane said, holding up one hand, "Do me a favor? Don't mince words."

She pouted. "Fine. One of my contacts backed out on his end of a deal. He managed to shake the team I sent to kill him and fled to Dalaran and is hiding in that infirmary of theirs, licking his wounds. I can't get my people close because he's begged sanctuary and they're being careful with who gets to see him. Since you're a priest I believe they'll let you in to help. Then..." She smiled. "Well. You've healed enough people to know how they tick. I don't think I need to tell you how to make an accident happen."

"That's despicable," Eonthane said, "I am a priest, you know. I took oaths-"

This time she interrupted. "Don't mince words with me," she snapped, "I know you. You're like a little boy pulling the wings off a moth just to watch it flutter around helplessly. How many people have you lingered on healing just to feel their pain for a few moments longer?"

Eonthane didn't reply, a cold knot forming in his stomach. It was a delicate balance... the pain of the addiction gnawed at him constantly. He pushed himself so hard, only stopping when the power he summoned wracked his body and left him coughing up blood onto his chin to freeze in his small beard, little flecks of crystallized red, like rubies. Even then, exhaustion couldn't hold off the burning need. So he fed his pain the pain of someone else. Being a priest there was no lack for people in agony.

"Do this for me," his sister said sweetly, "and I'll make it up to you. Maybe hire a servant to clean your place while you're gone. Fail, and I'll slit your throat myself while you sleep."

She brushed past him, gently kissing him on the cheek while he stood there motionless, seething in anger. Then she was out the door and into the humid evening air.

Eonthane's return to Dalaran was far sooner than anyone expected. He stopped by The Filthy Animal briefly to leave a message with the innkeeper for the Blood Wolves. The clan didn't require much of their members but the leaders still preferred to at least know the general location of everyone. They would fight and die for each other and Eonthane knew that Warraven would personally wade through a sea of scourge if she thought he was in danger. The tauren had too much heart and not enough brains.

He presented himself at First to Your Aid around midday, wearing soft white robes, his satchel, and carrying his staff. His heavy war gear was left behind. It was quiet that day and the only person in the front room was a dwarf minding the counter. He was working on weaving bandages out of frostweave and was doing a shoddy job of it. He seemed relieved to put the work down as Eonthane entered.

"G'day!" he bellowed in thickly accented common, "Whatcha looking for lad?"

Eonthane bit down a sharp retort. It wouldn't do to be insulting the dwarf's parentage when he was supposedly looking for volunteer work. He settled for a quick daydream of feeding the dwarf's fingers to ravenous sewer rats for calling him 'lad'.

"I would like to volunteer here," he said smoothly in his own thickly accented common, "My guild has not been needing me in the field much and I would hate for my talents to go idle."

"Ey! You be a priest then, lad? Good, good. Stay here just a sec while I go fetch one of the nurses, ey laddie?"

Eonthane gave what he hoped was a patient and reassuring smile. This subterfuge thing was interesting. He wasn't sure if he liked it yet or not.

He was enthusiastically welcomed as a volunteer. The nurse – her name was Rayliene – showed him around and found him a pale scarf lined with the colors of their uniforms. She tied it around his upper arm, explaining it was used to mark who was a volunteer.

"You'll be my assistant for two days," she said, "Just to make sure you know what you're doing. I don't have any doubts though as all the sin'dorei priests we've had volunteer here are superb. Probably because you all live so much longer than the rest of us humans. You look my age but I bet anything you're as old as my Pa."

"Most likely," he confirmed solemnly. She flashed him a smile. He noted her dimples showed when she did.

Those would be the first thing to go if she ever set foot outside Dalaran. Zombies weren't renown for their perky attitudes and cute dimples.

Rayliene was adequately skilled with magic and made up for her lack of brute strength with personality and a seemingly perfect memory. She knew the names of everyone who passed through her care, be it tending a burn someone suffered while work at the forge to sewing together someone who had been eviscerated while out in Northrend. Eonthane took the brunt of the work on that one, holding the troll's head still and channeling holy power to stave off shock and blood loss, a thin prayer on his lips to focus his mind. He could feel the troll trembling under his thin fingers and he met its gaze with his own, drinking in the fear he saw there. The suffering troll finally closed his eyes, shuddering, and Rayliene finished making the stitches, blood coating the hem of her sleeves and dress.

By the third day Eonthane was working on his own. The staff quickly assigned him to trauma work where the patients needed to be kept alive through brute force to give the more talented workers a chance to fix whatever was wrong. Eonthane had learned his trade in combat and was not one for delicate mendings of fractured bones and torn muscle. His skill lay in raw power, so much that it forced the body into rapid regrowth, devouring the energy for fuel to keep the heart beating and the lungs breathing. He listened to the conversations around him as he worked and as he took his rests where he could. The elf his sister wanted dead was kept separate from the other patients and seemed to be recovering from multiple knife wounds quite nicely. Unless he crashed they wouldn't have need of him and he couldn't get into the room without questions being asked.

Eonthane sat in his rented room above the Legerdemain Lounge and considered his options. He had no desire to ask his sister for advice. Stumbling in the room by accident was out of the question as it was located on the main hallway of the clinic and the nurses kept an eye on it. He wouldn't have time to arrange anything. Accidents were delicate work, after all, and that was not his forte. He relied on brute force. That thought turned a couple ideas in his head. He sat a bit straighter on the narrow bed, a soft smile creeping across his lips. Some part of him shuddered at the monstrosity taking shape in his mind and he felt cold race across his spine. It was horrible. It was evil.

It would work.

"Do I even want to know what you're up to?" The orc stomped along beside him sullenly. She didn't want to come but curiosity about what he was up to had finally won over. Eonthane smiled thinly.

"Not particularly," he replied, "Just keep this between us, right?"

"Of course. No matter how much a mean bastard you are, you're a Blood Wolf." Grishna snorted. "Just don't go thinking that makes me like you or anything."

Eonthane just kept on smiling. He didn't want any questions about his business in the Black Market that evening and he figured a grouchy orc shaman would help speed the transaction along. So long as she looked like she was liable to start breaking things at any moment they'd be willing to get his gold and send him on his way.

"I wouldn't dare presume such a thing," he murmured, "Ah. Here we are."

The two walked along the narrow wooden beams. Grishna eyed a shark circling in the water below with a speculative and hungry look in her eyes. Eonthane pitied the shark. At the far end of the alcove was a man hiding his face in the shadow of a heavy cloak. Vials sat in half-open crates behind him. He looked up as they approached and stood, lean and wary. Eonthane stopped a respectful distance away and gave the man a short bow.

"I need to purchase some poison," the priest said.

"You've come to the right place, I'd say," the man replied.

The bandages were easy to swipe the next day. The dwarf who had been making them had improved slightly in his handiwork and they sat in boxes near the door leading to the back of the building where the patients were housed. Eonthane spent the evening working, dipping each in a diluted mixture of what looked and smelled like clear water. The next day he returned the dried bandages to their boxes.

It took a couple of days for the clinic to get to the supply he had poisoned. Eonthane was concerned the delay would allow the toxin to lose its potency, but his fears were relieved before noon when one of the critical patients crashed. The priest rushed to the bed at the cries of alarm. The man had been bitten by one of the diseased bears in Dragonblight and had been bleeding profusely when he was brought in by friends. Eonthane had helped stop the bleeding and bandage the wound. No one noticed that the bandage had an odd stiffness to it. Now he was bleeding again, even worse than before, and the blood was thin and runny, dotted here and there with little lumps of dead and clotted blood. It stank of rot. The mess was terrific. The man went into convulsions, gasping for breath, his spine arcing while the attendants desperately tried to hold him still. Eonthane put his palm on the man's solar plexus and focused. The magic swelled up inside him like fire in his veins and he poured it out into the wound. The man's head lolled to the side as his muscles relaxed out of the convulsion and thick blood the color of mud poured out of his nose. It pooled on the floor, it drenched the robes of the nurses and the stink of it filled the room. After a moment Eonthane pulled away, stepping back from the mess that was once a person, shaking his head.

"No good," he said. His heart was racing with adrenaline. The magic burned in his veins, sending spikes of pleasure and longing that he grimly pushed aside.

"He was fine!" one of the nurses protested, "Stable! What happened?"

She stared at the blood, at the lumps that dotted it like insects.

"Plague, I would guess." Eonthane quietly thanked the person that spoke up. He didn't want to draw any more attention to himself. "We better get this cleaned up and start isolating anyone with open wounds."

The clinic was a frenzy of activity. Two more people died in short succession to each other. Eonthane managed to save a third that had only a small injury and therefore less of the toxin reacting with his blood. The priest burned away the toxin, his magic like fire in the patient's body. The cries of pain left everyone visibly shaken and a little bit frightened of this priest who could stand there so determined in the face of suffering.

Eonthane's target crashed sometime in the night. The clinic had instated a quarantine until they were confident they had the imaginary plague under control. They snatched rest where they could and Eonthane took advantage of a small break to destroy the rest of the poisoned bandages after he had seen a nurse going to take care of his target with some in hand. He didn't want this to spiral out of hand to the point someone started poking around and asking questions. Scourge plague was a good cover. It was made to be infectious. The open nature of wounds meant a greater chance of infection, which is why Eonthane had insisted on a poison that reacted to blood and not skin. It would all fit so nicely together.

He was stripping out of his robes when the crash happened, shucking the bloodstained cloth in favor of just his undershirt and pants. Cries of alarm rang out, familiar at this point, and he hurried to their source. They let him in the room without question. Eonthane had been able to save about half of the people he had worked on and the staff looked to him as someone who could pull someone through by sheer force of will. It helped that he knew in advance what to look for.

The elf was in convulsions and dark blood stained the bed and soaked the bandages that covered three stab wounds. One in the shoulder, two in the torso. Eonthane marveled that he had been able to escape his sister's thugs in that state. He took a position near the head of the bed, putting his hands on the man's chest. Another healer was concentrating on his torso, trying to stem the blood, force it to clot and stop the rampant bleeding. Eonthane exhaled and drew up his power, carefully choking it off into a feeble trickle that he fed into the man. It wouldn't be near enough to keep him alive. The elf's breath grew labored as second ticked by and he lost more and more blood. His face was strained and sweat stood out on his pale skin. Not long now. The elf's eyes opened and locked with Eonthane's. The priest smiled, a familiar thin smile framed by familiar brown-red hair. Fear flooded the dying elf's expression and he opened his mouth to speak, to gasp out one last word. It never came as blood flooded his mouth and formed a small bubble. It popped and the lungs heaved, coughing up more blood and then he fell away. Eonthane felt him die and stood back, feigning exhaustion that he really didn't have much trouble faking. He leaned on the wall, pale and drawn, shadows under his eyes like bruises.

"No good," he said hoarsely, "No good."

The air was cool when Eonthane returned to Silvermoon. A light breeze had found its way into the streets and carried the bittersweet smell of flowers just starting to bud. Eonthane found it a welcome change from Northrend. He entered his apartment, dropping his satchel near the door and activating the light crystals on the walls. The place was clean of dust and a small vase of fresh-cut flowers sat on the low table in the middle of the room. A small slip of paper sat next to it and Eonthane picked it up, tossing his staff onto a chair. In neat handwriting it read 'Good job. I'll buy you dinner later. -Your loving sister.'

Eonthane crumpled the note and in a flash of cold anger called his magic to him. The note went up in white fire and he let the ashes fall to the floor. He caught up his satchel and carried it into the other room. He didn't look back to where the ashes sat, alone on the clean wood.


End file.
